


Macondo, Or, The Rise and Fall of the City of Glass

by Spoopy_Moose



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: 2020 L'Manberg Election on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Constructed Reality, Dream SMP retelling, Experimental Style, Gen, It gets weird later, L'Manberg War of Independence on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Literature, Manberg Festival on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP Spoilers (Video Blogging RPF), Not Beta Read, Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Reality Bending, references to one hundred years of solitude
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-14
Updated: 2020-12-14
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:29:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28059213
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spoopy_Moose/pseuds/Spoopy_Moose
Summary: Many years later, as he faced the end of a sword held by his father, Wilbur Soot remembered the distant afternoon in which he had brewed drugs with his younger brother.``A mediation on the circular nature of history, and performers who have given so much only for their creation to overtake them.Retelling of the Dream SMP with a twist
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, Dave | Technoblade & TommyInnit & Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson, Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, Niki | Nihachu & Wilbur Soot, Toby Smith | Tubbo & TommyInnit, Toby Smith | Tubbo & Wilbur Soot
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	Macondo, Or, The Rise and Fall of the City of Glass

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, I'm back with another DSMP fanfiction. This one needs a little bit of explaining.  
> Basically, I saw the repeating themes and how storylines kind of parallels the ones that comes before and the themes of legacy and repeating history in the newer plotlines and I thought, this is kind of similiar to the novel one hundred years of solitude, so I kind of came up with this. The book, if you haven't read it, is about a family over the span of 100 years and how later generations repeat the same mistakes of their forefathers and how history repeats itself.  
> The idea kind of got a little out of hand after that because I had wanted to try out some experimental ideas I had for a while, with like maxmalism prose and stream of conciousness writing, so this is more of a playground for my experiements, so it would get weird from the first chapter. I wanted to incoporate the "real" world of streamers into this and explore like how these two realities kind of bleed into one another. Anything mentioning the "real" streamers here is obviously not real and just a fictional representation of them.  
> Updates are going to be irregular, I can't promise anything because this is a side project I am working on on the sidelines of my main project.  
> Anyways, please enjoy the first chapter, comments and kudos feed me, if you notice any mistakes in this chapter, please point them out to me because I haven't edited this, editing is for cucks and I'm an alpha man /j

Many years later, as he faced the end of a sword held by his father, Wilbur Soot remembered the distant afternoon in which he had brewed drugs with his younger brother. At the time, what would later become known as L’manberg was nothing more than a little stretch of land, surrounded by a snaking river with crystal clear water from which you could see the bottom of. It was the beginning of July when he first stepped foot on the Dream SMP (a name conceived in arrogance and drunkenness in one of the first nights of human inhabitants, where liquor spilled as freely as laughter and they were all friends, Wilbur did not know of that era, only that he had heard of it through tired grins sitting around a campfire) to the area that would one day be a city of their dreams. The air was still humid, that sort which were oppressively hot with a hint of moisture, though he wasn’t sure if humidity it had made the air all the more bearable or not. His back was sticky with sweat, salty beads which ran down his back and stained his white shirt and blazer combo, a classy, yet impractical fit left over from his days as the self-proclaimed conductor of an international railway. Of course, he was far away from his railroads now, long stretches of bridges he had spent days and month mulling over and which contained months of his own blood and sweat and tears is now sitting useless and abandoned in another world. In this world, he had decided to build next to a river, where the summer air was abuzz with noises of the undergrowth and bugs came out from the tall grass to snap at the skin of those who came near. He absentmindedly scratched at an itch on his ankle, he’s been getting a few of them recently, large and itchy and bulbous growth of his legs; the itch glows and moves, a sensation which cannot be sated by that mere act of scratching, so he left it alone, hoping that it would cool down soon in the night air, no more hotness emitting from within. Fireflies floated in the air as the sun disappeared over the horizon, creating tiny lightbulbs which fluttered, bobbing up and down and up and down, they were carried by the cool wind, a relief cutting straight through the still oppressive air. He didn’t know what it was about summer, or what it was about summer in this part of the world, only that it had made everything ten time heavier than it should be, where fabric turned to wood and wood to stone and stones to heavy steel, each weighing down in his arms as he struggled to carry them to the little van that he was making, a true adaptation of his previous nomad lifestyle. To his right, a fly buzzed innocuously, inoffensively, still it seemed to snap at his strings, taught and tight, he reached up a hand to wave it away, irritation bristled in his movements, made all the more by the heat and the constant low, yet inaudible to the human ear sounds of insects, moving their tiny little shiny bodies in conjunction with one another. He truly was not used to this sort of weather, his previous home were near the artic, where a downwards north breeze often meant that the whole island was covered in snow; it still wasn’t pleasant, of course, not when two inches or more covered the tracks that were meant to run from one end of the continent to another and made it unusable and he had to take a little shovel out to the tracks, pushing the snow inch by inch off the railway and into the depth of the waters below. Sometimes the drowned, creatures of the depth, those forgotten and forsaken by their brethren up above and even more forgotten by their counterparts in life, made their way up to the surface, disturbed by all the snow that he is shoveling onto them; oft they were more dangerous, their tridents more deadly and aim more accurate, cause unlike in land, where he could just run or fight back without much push-back, the water made it impossible to navigate, so he died to them more than a few times, his chest or his abdomen impaled on their pale blue weapons, blood dripping down his lips until he inevitably drowned. It was the most horrible form of death, leaving him weak once he respawned back into his home bed, phantom water still filled his lungs. Never was one for combat, he would say himself, and his adopted brothers would agree, never was one for combat, enjoyed using his words and twisting them into sweet droplets of honey instead. It was what had made him a mere background character in his own home, where his elder was a champion of blood and gore, his father the face of a survivor, wings and face hardened by the ages and his younger a whirlwind of chaos, burning and turning that in his path into soot (soot, a funny name, he’s never been destructive enough to live up to his namesake, yet he chose it when he had left home, a reminder of the aftermath). In a family like that, it was easy to overlook the middle son, a son of diplomacy and sharp words, a son which never lost his temper and never picked a fight where he shouldn’t. A perfect son, some would say, yet perfection is so often overlooked, perfection was the nature state of things, where mistakes are paid more attention. Perhaps that was how the city of his dreams started, with false words that dripped as sweet as honey and a burning desire to be seen and heard, not as background but as foreground.

It was later that week when he first conceived of the catalyst, the plot which brought them their prosperity (and their downfall, but that wouldn’t happen for many years, for now, let the dreamer dream). Sitting in his newly constructed caravan, looking out over the quiet plains, the hills which surround him and the distant noises from the town beyond that, he plotted and schemed.

“You want to sell drugs together?” he had asked Tommy, the resident gremlin and coincidentally, his own younger brother, mischievous smile hanging on his face. Later, he would come to regret this decision, but of that moment, he thought none about their downfall and all about the shining horizon of a future.

Tommy had looked at him surprised, he’d only heard of Wilbur’s self-proclaimed “dirty crime boy” persona through word of mouth of his very early days, where he was running around town thieving and scamming. Through the time the boy had known adult Wilbur, it was always as an impeccable pillar of morals, perhaps this was the fun side of him, Tommy had thought, no more bullshit war crime trials and holding him back from stabbing the shit out of neighboring countries. He opened his mouth, letting a grin creep up his face, “absolutely”.

“Good, good,” that was the easy part, Tommy had already grown into quite a crime boy of his own, challenging fights without thoughts of consequences, recruiting him had not been hard. The hard part was yet to come, they needed to create demand for their products, a monopoly of sorts, where they sold the only available potions from their less-than-legal business. They started by telling lies, that the blaze rods were the causes for the recent epidemic of diarrhea on the server. That on its own were not completely a lie, for it was true that blaze rods, the main component of the brewing stand, had some unfortunate side-effects when it comes to its usage. Including but not limited to mild stomach pains, mild headaches and in some cases, to those who were extremely sensitive to that kind of stuff, mild hallucinations. It was one of the reasons that it was a part of the brewing stand recipe, first discovered eons ago by the old masters, those who learned to wield the powers of the world into their own hands. It reacted to different kinds of ingredients to curate different effects, those which boosted and those which did not and many more which had little to no physical effects but lured the user into a state of sedation, which led to a state of euphoria and a crashing downward fall when they finally slept off the effects of the potion, waking up with a pounding headache and light which pierces through the eyes and into the skull. It was easy to get addicted, that stuff, used only in moderation, even by the most experienced players. So, the lie itself was easy to tell, it depended on the person that they were telling it to however, experienced players knew well of the risks of potion brewing as well as its side effects, so they had only looked onto them with skepticism and walking away, muttering under their breath about “crazies on this server”. The first they had managed to trick was Tommy’s best friend, a somewhat spacy looking boy with brown hair and a green shirt called Tubbo. They had found him in his gardens, tending to his flowers and his bees, all striped black and yellow, buzzing happily in the backdrop of green and lavender. He had listened intensely to him, or rather to the boy next to him as they explained the side effects of the blaze rods and potion brewing.

“…you must have felt it too, right? The stomach pains, the constant headaches, that’s a side effect, see? A new one they just discovered, that’s why you haven’t heard of it yet. It would worsen over time and then…”

“And then you’re just going to shit all over yourself. You want to shit yourself Tubbo, you like shit?” Wilbur’s smooth words were finished by Tommy, cracking a grin and spewing profanity like he usually does.

“So, what we need to know is that if you’re going to help us fight the cause or not, help us collect all the brewing stands on this server and the blaze rods. We don’t want this server to smell like…feces, you know, to keep this place clean.”

The boy nodded, from his face, Wilbur could tell that he was fully convinced. He felt a twang of guilt of what was basically scamming, but it had felt comfortable, falling back to old habits, the days which he had went around the server (not this one, another one, long gone and long dead) with Schlatt (which, many years later, he would come to think of as an enemy, someone who pulled the wool from his eyes and plunged him downwards into an absolute spiral, later, he would come to see him in a haze of hatred; and later still, he would not see him at all, all traces wiped from his memories; now, now he was a long-gone friend who had parted ways with him on less-than-favorable terms but nevertheless, a friend). He watched as the young boy went into his house and dug out every piece of blaze rod that he could find, even the powder was confiscated from him, put into his own pockets, ready to be taken home and spun into profit.

They left with a smile and a promise of safety, leaving the young boy robbed of his own possessions that he so painstakingly gathered from the nether. He watched them go with a smile still hanging on his face, hand lazily waving to their backs. For the next few weeks, they cooked drugs in peace, or in as much peace as they could, in the seclusion of their little valley. Smoke ran from the various brewing stands that populated the countertops, each with a bottle of various colours bubbling away. the smell of the place was intoxicating, putrid, but running with the unmistakable undercurrent something fruity and sweet, the sort that coats the back of your throat and makes you choke from the taste. He had to be careful about concealing them, not selling just yet, or else he’s going to blow his cover and the whole operation might as well be dropped. He had felt the adrenaline rush settling it, making his every movement jittery, restless; Tommy drops in every once in a while, to drop off blaze powder he had stolen from one person or another, but mostly he is alone, listening to the birds chirp their evening songs as he meticulously brewed away. He often warned Tommy not to bother the high-ups of the server, as he had seen them around, in their shiny netherite armor, enchantments gleaming in the dark, pulsating and waving with their every step. But the younger boy had shrugged it off, waving it away like it was nothing and he did suppose it was like nothing to him. From the other’s account, he had been quite the daredevil on the server of late, picking fights left and right, dying in a myriad of ways and always covered in some sort of bruises which littered his whole body and painted it in shades of blue and purple. Wilbur himself never did like dying, a horrible business really, all the pain and the suffering, of course you’re fine for the next day, but the pain is very, very real, painfully so. He had once starved to death and the slow rot which ate him from within was more than he could bare. Even quick deaths, the ones where he had slipped and fallen or where he turned his head at the wrong time and got an arrow embedded in his chest was terrible, leaving phantom pains across his body for the entire next week. The aftermath was the worst part, even worse than the death itself, it meant that items one had spent hours finding or crafting wad gone in a matter of seconds. But nevertheless, some people seeked it, the thrill and the high, the danger of running on the edge of death, the blurred line between here and the after-life.

Midday the week after was when their troubles begun. He had been in his van when it happened, a clanking of armor from the outside, boots against mud against grass then finally against the steps of his humble home. Panic rose like no other as he rushed to push away the evidence of his wrongdoings, his crimes, shoved glowing bottles in oak chests and stuffed still hot-to-the-touch brewing stands under the countertops.

“Wilbur? Wilbur? Open the door,” the voice was deep, American by the sounds of it, coming from the other side of the world than him. He had seen more than a few Americans in his days, all dastardly creatures, preferring guns and loud yet deceiving words to the Brit’s quiet thievery. He rushed to open the door.

“Hey…” he greeted, looking at the American up and down, his brain scanning for the right name. he wore a white t-shirt and a dark undershirt beneath that, a fire symbol was printed on his t-shirt, tasteless stuff, these Americans, all so loud and all have nothing to show for it, around his head was a white headband, its ends floating gently in the breeze. A pair of dark trousers and finally, a pair of black and white checkered shoes that he was sure was trademarked in another universe. All in all, it had seemed an impractical fit to fit a suit of armor over, much too heavy for the boiling weather. Though, that would be like the pot calling the kettle black with his own limited choice in fashion, did he have other outfits? Why was he wearing just this one?

“…Sapnap,” the other finished for him, annoyance at his blatant disregard for his existence painted across his face.

“….Sapnap, right, of course, how could I forget?” he continued, waving a hand airily, a lie, that was, of course, he didn’t even know the man’s name before today, but, he must maintain appearances, “how can I help you, Sapnap?”

“Right, I was getting a report that you are apparently hording potion supplies and illegally selling drugs out of this van, I was just coming to check if it was true.”

Wilbur smiled internally, gleeful at the opportunity to perform, he doesn’t get many of those lately, what was him being all alone and shit. The last performance he had was…god, it must’ve been the war trials, that was a long time ago, years, maybe, or was it mere months? He let his face go carefully blank, maintaining that position for only a few seconds before the act started, facial muscles now engaged, arranged carefully into the most truthful confused and angry look he could muster.

“I…who’s been saying that about me? I haven’t been cooking drugs, I’ve been perfectly compiling with the law, just like a good law-abiding citizen of the Dream SMP. Was it Tommy? I bet it was Tommy, he’s always going on and saying all sorts of crazy shit, you better not believe a single word.”

The other looked confused, brows furrowed in concentration, _good_ , Wilbur thought, _confuse first_ , _then shift the blame_. “no, not Tommy, it was actually Alyssa, she’s been reporting smoke coming from your van and the smell of…uh….substances drifting from it.”

God, he should have put a proper filtration system in place, even as he tried to keep it in wraps, he had to open his windows sometimes, he cant work whilst everything was covered in a haze of fumes which made his eyes water and his throat itch. He thought he had been too far away from the main square for the smoke to be seen but apparently, this Alyssa had. Still, he faked a smile, letting confusion and ignorance flood his face, “I-I was cooking a few nights ago, maybe that’s what she had seen?”

“Cooking…right…” Sapnap’s words were drawn out, he was not convinced, in truth, it was not Alyssa who had rang the first alarm bells, it was him. He had seen the British man coming and going on the server, tagged along by that little gremlin of his, pockets full of potion equipment, white shirt stained with the orange glow of blaze powder, fingernails glowing a strange yellow. He had been following them for a while now, seeing them coming and going, each time the stains got larger, more noticeable, he was sure that Wilbur was trying to hide it, conceal it from Dream and the others but if he was trying, he was doing a piss-poor job at that. “Look, can I come in, to see if you have anything…you shouldn’t have in there. I mean, if you got nothing to hide, you’ve got nothing to worry about, right?”

Wilbur’s lips pursed, his face a mask, his heartbeat audible even from where Sapnap was standing, “look, I don’t think it's a good idea for you to see the inside of my van right now…” his voice was drawn out, words slow and deliberate, as if he was making them up on the fly.

“Why not?”

“I-just-I-look I think it’s time for you to go,” he licked his suddenly dry and cracked lips, eyes darting around, looking anywhere but his eyes. Sapnap narrowed his eyes, the obvious signs of a liar, he sighed internally, he was not very impressed with this display, he had thought the Brit was a great liar, a fraud even from the legends, all smooth words and sweet lies. The man standing in front of him was nothing but a blustering fool, porcelain lies cracking under even the slightest of pressure.

“I’m not leaving until you show me whatever you got going in your van,” he said, his voice resolute, from his inventory, he manifested a crossbow, enchantment rippling and shifting in the sun, pointing directly at the taller man, “so I’ll say this again, have you been cooking drugs in your van?”

“Shit,” Wilbur whispered and disappeared in front of him.

_WilburSoot has left the game_

God fucking dammit, they were just getting to the good bit.


End file.
